


Cats are a Mysterious Kind of Folk

by PersonyPepper



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: ;)), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Attempt at Humor, Bard Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Bard Jaskier | Dandelion, Cat Roach (The Witcher), Enemies to Lovers, Feel-good, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Pets, Roach's kittens are named after fish because my friend is a genius, Sexual Tension, When i grow up i want to be Mavis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:21:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25291597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PersonyPepper/pseuds/PersonyPepper
Summary: Pfftt— method acting. The fucking nerve of that godsforsaken goth bitch of a bard— oh that’s quite good, he’ll have to use that later.Jaskier himself is a fantastic bard, a good singer, an even better entertainer— no wonder Geralt doesn't think so, the bard wouldn’t know talent even if it punched in the face and called his mother a whoreOr, Geralt has kittens, and Jaskier is adopted by one of them. Oh, and they're rival bards and (unfortunately) neighbours.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 12
Kudos: 86





	Cats are a Mysterious Kind of Folk

Jaskier’s donned in his favourite outfit, a pretty blue number lined with white and baby pink, doublet unbuttoned to show off an embroidered chemise, a cute little bow above his butt like he’s a fucking gift (he is). His lute thumps against his back as he walks down the street— he honestly, he gives himself fairytale princess vibes, only the cracked sidewalk and sketchy alleys that remain in shadows despite the evening light ruining his little daydream. His feet ache—really not in the right footwear to be busking, much less walking, and there’s no gorgeous fellow with a horse he can hitch a ride with.

The bard coughs as a raggedy old car passes him on the asphalt beside the cement sidewalk, leaving horrid black fumes in its wake.

No, no cunning gentleman with a horse to sweep him off his feet, no.

And no grand castle to return home to, either, just his old apartment, with its mysteriously leaky ways and interesting carpet stains. It’s all he can afford, it’s home, and honestly, he couldn’t love it more. He walks up the stairs with a relish, odd creaking be damned; Jaskier’s eager to get off his feet.

Mavis’ unlocking her door right next to Jaskier’s, walker in her hands and her pup tugging at his leash as soon as he spots Jaskier.

“Heyyyy, babyyy,” because Ham is an absolute baby and Jaskier loves him more than he loves life. He’s the most hideous little mexican hairless pup, a white tuft on his head and the beadiest eyes Jaskier’s ever seen.

“Hello, Mavis! You’ve had quite the walk, I see, how’ve you been?” He’s never let a little tiredness get in the way of talking to his lovely neighbour, a kind old woman who has him over for dinner once a week. He loves her like a mum. 

He smiles at her as she prattles about the bingo game she’d won, how Erika, the little whore, had been so mad that she’d thrown her dentures at Mavis. The bard laughs, unabashed. It’s good. It’s really good. 

Until it _isn’t_. 

He’s distracted as a white head of hair walks up the stairs. From next to him, he idly hears Mavis ask if he needs help, only for a low, rumbling voice the reply that it’s the last of the boxes.

The corner of a broody set of lips lifts in a smile to give her a thanks.

No.

_No._

It fucking can’t be— he doesn’t know which God’s cursed him with this fate, but Geralt of fucking Rivia is stood before him, a heavy looking box in his very-ripped arms. Jaskier watches in horror as he man turns to him, a frown on his face, hazel-yellow eyes staring into his fucking soul.

“Jaskier.” Damn his voice for being so Melitele-damned beautiful, it’s not right. “What're you doing here?” The man takes a moment to look at him, brows raised in amusement. “Finally decided to do some method acting? Always told you you needed it— at least now you won’t be bumbling around like a pie with no filling.” 

_Jaskier wants to strangle him._

“Now look here, Geralt, I don’t know why _you’re_ here, but I live here,” he jerks a thumb over his shoulder, eyes narrowing, “and this building can’t take _two bards—”_

“Why? Feeling threatened?” 

The fucking _dickface_ only smirks at him, a stupidly hot expression.

Jaskier splutters as Geralt shoves the door opposite to his apartment open, that self-satisfied, crooked little grin— “Now look here you, _mongrel_ …” But Geralt’s already closed the door behind him, disappeared into the apartment opposite to Jaskier’s.

Poor Jask groans, red in the face as he realizes that Geralt Eric du Haute-Bellegard, or _Geralt of Rivia_ , the most irritating bard in all the Continent, is now his fucking neighbor. 

He opens his own door with (necessary, not at all dramatic) aggravation, flipping Geralt’s door off over his shoulder. The bastard’s probably watching through the peephole. Jaskier grimaces as he hears a laugh (fucking _cackle_ , because Geralt is _evil_ ) from behind the door before he slams his own front door shut.

Bastard. 

But fuck if he isn’t tired, carefuly hanging up his brightly-colored clothes and tugs on an old t-shirt with One Direction on it, foregoing his joggers entirely in favour of lounging in his boxers. One of the nicer things about living alone.

He chugs a chill beer, throat parched from his singing at Triss’ Tavern after his busking, a lovely Renaissance-themed bar that’s always welcomed him with open arms, even when everyone else had been throwing bread at him. At least he doesn’t have to work till the day after tomorrow, no faux, customer-service smiles for him for another day, thank Melitele. He falls back into his sofa, sprawling out on the old thing.

Pfftt— _method acting._ The fucking _nerve of that godsforsaken goth bitch of a bard—_ oh that’s quite good, he’ll have to use that later. 

Jaskier himself is a _fantastic_ bard, a good singer, an even better entertainer— no wonder Geralt doesn't think so, the bard wouldn’t know talent even if it punched in the face and called his mother a whore.

He sighs, drinking the last of his beer. He’ll have to work on his song soon, the one for Eskel, a lovely witcher he’s befriended at the faire, a friend of humanity, indeed. Jaskier can hear it now, a song of heroics, heartbreak, and Destiny. Of course, now to just put it to paper… 

But his eyes are heavy, and surely, closing them for a few seconds— a yawn escapes his mouth— can’t hurt… 

— —

He’s awoken to fur tickling his nose, a gentle weight on his sternum.

Okay, what the _fuck_ , he’s going to _lose_ it if it’s a raccoon again, _it’s the fourth time this month_ and— he stills as he hears a soft meow.

_Huh._

He props himself onto his elbows, looking down at the small blob of chestnut fur, deep brown eyes staring back into him, nearly black in the moonlight. Jaskier holds back the odd instinct to meow back at it as it nuzzles at his chin before settling back in a heap of fur on his chest, sleepy eyes staring curiously at him before slipping shut.

_Huh_. Well, it doesn’t look like it’s going to claw his face off, really, so he lays back down, tucks one hand under his head and settles back down onto his lumpy sofa.

Only to shoot up in his seat, the kitten meowing at him like he’s gone and kicked it as Jaskier stares wide-eyed at the door. Fuck, he’s never been a drummer, but it’s no doubt that Geralt is, the rude fucker, what time is it, banging on his door a this hou, _Gods_.

It’s barely past five. 

But _still_.

Jaskier scowls, the kitten hopping up onto his head, sharp claws digging into his scalp but he really has bigger problems right now.

“What the fuck do you want, Geralt?”

“ _Salmon_.” He growls, looking absolutely— what, is that _panic_?

“I haven’t found any fish here, if you must know,” he says, utterly confused, kinda scared, and honestly a little aroused. The puffball on his head mewls, jumps onto Geralt's shoulder with practiced grace and Geralt relaxes _instantly_ , chin nuzzling into her fur oh so gently. 

Then his amber eyes narrow at him, taking a menacing step forward, a finger jabbing into Jaskier’s chest.

“Don’t fucking touch my kittens.”

Wait.

“Kittens? More than one?’

Geralt snarls at him, teeth bared. He really would’ve made a much better witcher than being the shitty bard he is. 

But also... The fucking _audacity_?

“Oh, don’t come in here snarling at me, your kitten just loves me better, don’t you, my dear?” He hears Geralt growl as Salmon tilts her chin up to let Jaskier scratch under it. Geralt huffs, unlocks his apartment and gently setS her down, watching as she makes her way to a fluffy brown cat with similar-colored fur before closing the door and facing Jask again.

“Touch her again—” 

“And _what_ , you’ll call my singing fillingless pie again? Excuse me, _Mister Geralt of Rivia_ , ” he says, taking a step forward, relishing in the fact that Geralt straightens a bit, “You have kittens, and if you think that I’m not going to break into your house every _fucking_ day for beating me in the bardic competition last month, you have _no idea_ ,” he jabs a finger into his chest, leaning forward, their faces oh so close, “how much of fucking prick I can be.”

Geralt looks at him, lips parted, eyes just a bit wide.

They’re nearly pressed against one another, and before Jaskier can awkwardly apologize and tell Geralt to get out, before he can fucking _blink_ , lips are pressed against his, a hand dragging him closer by the collar of his poor One Direction t-shirt.

Nothing like a little argument to push sexual tension to a breaking point, he guesses.

“What about your cats,” he mumbles, his door kicked shut behind them as Geralt tugs his shirt over his head. 

“Have food, water, and Roach,” 'course he’d name his cat Roach, Jaskier isn’t even fucking surprised, man has no taste in romanticisms.

“Stop thinking, it’s annoying.” Geralt huffs, pressing Jaskier against the wall as he sucks a bruise into his neck, kissing along it as Jaskier unbuttons his shirt.

Geralt slips to his knees, tugging down Jaskier’s boxers. “Really? That’s funny, I was just thinking about how fucking irritating you are and— oh _fuck, fuck— Geralt—!”_

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a tumblr prompt fill! 
> 
> Let me know what you thought <333 comments make my day! 
> 
> [Come say hi on tumblr (@persony-pepper)!](https://persony-pepper.tumblr.com)


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